Lost Patrons
by SilverGilded
Summary: Veritas and Aequitas used to be one of a kind, but 'Copy Cat Syndrome' is making it's presence known as all reinact The Saints, calling themselves The Sheperds.
1. Multiple Multiples

_"911, What's your emergency?"_

_"Oh God! Jesus Christ! He's dead! They shot him! He got shot! Help! Please! He's bleeding! Fucking Christ!"_

_"Sir? Where are you? Who has been shot?"_

_"Corner of Athens Street, South Boston! Hurry! I can't hold them off long!"_

****

_BANG-BANG-BANG_

_"Sir! What's going on!"_

_"I don't know! It was supposed to be quick! Only three! **'BANG' **. . . Ssshit"_

_"Sir? Sir?! Sir! Can you hear me! SIR!!"_

_"We're sorry. The number you have reached has either been disconnected or is no longer in service, please hang up and try again. . . We're sorry. The number you have reached has either been disconnected. . ."_

**2 hours later**

The smell of thick copper filled the polluted Boston air as Smecker dunked down below the yellow crime scene tape. He was unto happy about the call from the police department, only for the fact that they had called him two hours into the investigation. He grumbled a 'thanks' to the courteous cop that lifted it for him and hissed his way to the every growing swarm around the bodies. A heavy scowl seemed to be painted onto his face, deepening as he neared, feeling a annoyed heat building up inside his chest, ready to explode. Smecker liked being there for his unknown victims. It gave him a chance to set everything in motion of what he could do for those who where wronged by the world and having to be called in two hours later was not his idea of helpful.

As Smecker entered the throng of blue, it took all that he had not to shove them aside due to the aggravation that already settled in before he arrived, but half way through the crowd of police he lost it.

"All Right! Unless You Want Something Shoved Up your Asses-MOVE! Paul Smecker! FBI!" Smecker boomed over the white-noise of the cops, holding up his chained badge.

And like Moses parting the Red Sea, the cops smashed themselves into each other to make a small walkway for Smecker to stalk his way to the John Does. Know he was pissed and it was far from being extinguished, nothing was going to stop him from going off on the next guy that said one word, one _FUCKING_ word to him.

As he cleared the last few feet of scampering law-enforcers, Smecker spied Greenly; back to Smecker as the man made his broad signature hand gestures. This was going to be fun.

"So dat Mudder-Fucker over here pops dis Fucker over dere. . ."

"Greenly!" Smecker snapped.

Greenly flinched away from the harsh tone of his superior. He looked over his shoulder and saw fire burning behind Smecker's eyes. Greenly gulped and started rubbing the back of his head in shame. Smecker motioned for him to follow as he moved to a location with fewer people to listen in. Greenly shivered, but followed anyway with his hands in his pockets and shoulders slumped in fear.

"Greenly! What the hell is going on!" Smecker hissed sharply as he spun around to face the cop.

"You know just as much as everyone else, Smecker. The bodies. . ." Greenly started.

"I'm not talking about the bodies, you dolt! Why the fuck was I not contacted earlier!?"

"It's South Boston. The first-on-the-scene thought it was a drive-by," Greenly said defensively.

"A drive-by? And it took you TWO FUCKING HOURS to figure out that it wasn't!"

"Well. . ."

Greenly carried on, defending himself and the other cops that have already been on the scene as Smecker's attention went to a small gap that had formed from the circle of forensic investigators. A white sheet attracted his eye, covering the body from head to toe with a smear of blood that was seeping up the hem. The body was being hoisted up onto a gurney, jostling around recklessly. An arm fell free of the white sheet and Smecker nearly lost his dinner. Time stopped for a split second as Smecker grew cold. He eyed the fallen arm, watching it riggle and bounce as the body was wheel away. Time picked itself back up and Smecker made his move.

"Stop! Stop right there!" Smecker pushed past Greenly to stall the gurney that was heading towards the ambulance.

His heart was pounding frantically in his chest from shear panic. It couldn't be! It just can't! Smecker kept saying to himself. They were too good to be shot and killed! They had the best skills of evading death and to be shot on the streets in South Boston was unheard of and unthinkable to Smecker, but as he neared the finally stationary gurney, Smecker eyed the fallen arm. The Celtic cross on the forearm, Aequitas tattooed onto his right hand and a tufted of brown hair that also escaped the cover of the white sheet.

"Please! Please! Don't let it be Murphy!" Smecker pleaded with himself as he raised the white sheet with shaking hands.

* * *

**This is the story that I promised Betty-Boo. I hope you like it! I know it's short, but this is all I've had time to type. Better this than nothing. I've gotten a lot from the chapters that you gave me and then some! So feel free to tell me if you hate it or love it or you just want me to quite while i'm ahead. Reviews are loved!**


	2. Death Bites

"Shit," Smecker muttered sharply under his breath.

His hands no longer shook as the panic eased itself back down to a dull throb and his anger flared up, past what it was when his day started. This was a sick joke and the FBI agent wasn't going to stand for it! Letting the sheet fall back onto the body, Smecker made his way towards the exit. He pushed past Greenly, who was, for once in his life, speechless. The knock of Smecker's shoulder to his back brought Greenly out of his silent stoop as it jarred him painfully.

"Hey! Where you goin' Smecker? Smecker?!" Greenly called out, but Smecker never stopped.

"Going to the morgue. Make sure those bodies are processed, labeled and waiting on their slab before I get there," he called over his shoulder.

Smecker heard Greenly curse rapidly as he hurried everyone to work faster. Chaos was breaking loose behind the FBI agent, but that didn't stop Smecker from reaching his car and driving off. Inside the car, Smecker took the longer way to the station, adding another ten minutes onto the drive that took less than twenty. The silence inside the car calmed him as he drove down the crowded streets of Boston, but the chilling scare was still nestled deep within his bones. Reaching into his pocket, Smecker brought out his cell phone and dialed a number by memory.

__

'Oi! Yeh damn fuckers! . . . Don't be sayin' tat, yeh twat! An why de fuck not? Give me de fuckin' phone! Yeh an wat army? OW! Tat army, yeh fucker! . . . Dis is Connor and Murphy, leave a message after the fuckin' beep. . . An you tell me not te do tat, yeh fuckin' ejit! Oh would yeh shut te fuck up already!'

****

Beep

"Connor, Murphy's dead. Get your ass to the morgue," Smecker bleated out and hung up the phone before he said anything else, "This is going to be a fucked up day"

__

**30 minutes later**

Silence. The morgue was the best place for it and frankly, Poppy loved it. Sitting at her desk, Poppy had been relayed the information that Agent Smecker had given Greenly and was scribbling as fast as she could about what she had found on the first John Doe; A.K.A.: Murphy McManus. Poppy wrote the name at the top of the page and had to pause for a moment.

"I know that name," she said to herself, as she stared at her handwriting.

With in a split second, she threw her pen into the table and pushed herself away from her desk, rolling with her wheeled chair to the other side of the morgue, where she kept her database computer. Missing the computer by about a foot, Poppy made a desperate grab and caught the edge of the desk, typing before she even had herself fully centered. Just as she was about to press ENTER, Smecker sauntered in through the double-swing doors and sat on the corner of her desk, even though she has told him multiple time not to.

"How's my Grim Reaper doing?" Smecker asked as nicely as an aggravated agent could.

Poppy hadn't turned around since Smecker had entered. Too engrossed to the computer than to the usually flamboyant FBI agent.

"I'd be even better if you got your ass of my desk, Smecker," Poppy spoke, distracted with her pursuit of information, "Gotcha! Sneaky little fucker,"

The printer came to life as Poppy wheeled herself back to the front desk and smiled prettily to Smecker as she adjusted her glasses. The machine that sat next to her spat out a thick piece of paper and Poppy ripped it out with a sharp flick of her wrist, holding it lazily out to Smecker.

"What do we got?" Smecker asked, seeming genuinely curious.

"What we have at this moment is nothing," Poppy said, still smiling.

"Then why do I have this paper?" Smecker asked with a raised eyebrow.

Poppy sat quietly, still smiling a knowing smile as she fiddled with her pen for dramatic affect. It was a game they have played since Poppy started here over a year ago. Poppy giving Smecker information and Smecker having to figure out the right question to make sense of it. The score was 29 to 6; Smecker the loss. Smecker looked at the paper and read the information closely, not seeing what the morgue director saw.

"Alright Poppy. I give up. What am I not seeing?" Smecker rolled his eyes, his frustration surprisingly simmering down a bit.

Poppy's smile broadened and she wheeled herself to a little score board she had hung next to the start of the wall-to-wall freezers.

"30 to 6," Poppy yelled out as she added a tally-mark to her nearly-full side.

Poppy pushed herself back to Smecker and took the paper back that she had earlier give him.

"What you are not seeing is right in front of you, Agent Smecker and since you are not seeing it you're not asking the right question, which is 'WHO do we have' and more correctly who we DON'T have," Poppy spoke smoothly as she smiled a winning smile his way.

"Such the poet, Poppy," Smecker poked fun, "So who don't we have?"

"And he knows proper English! Hallelujah!" Poppy threw her hands up in the air for emphasis.

"Poppy," Smecker stretched her name in warning.

"Alright, fine!"

Poppy got out of her seat for the first time since Smecker had been there and walked over to the first slab. She took the clipboard that hung off the front of the table and read the information out loud.

"White, caucasian male, Height: 5 foot 9 inches, Weight: 155 pounds, Age: 20 to 25 years old, Brown hair, Blue eyes, Tattoo of Celtic cross on forearm, Virgin Mary on neck, Aequitas on right hand, Personal property found on body: Black wool coat, black cotton t-shirt, blue jeans, size medium thigh gun holsters, two barrette's and a rosary. ID number 8528700, A.K.A.: John Doe, A.K.A. : Murphy McManus, A.K.A. : Not Murphy McManus, A.K.A. : the idiot that got himself killed! Drum roll please! William Jacob Thornton!"

Just as Poppy had finished with her enthusiastic over-view of the body on the slab, the swinging doors crashed open, hitting the back wall behind it. A skinny blonde in the same guard that was described on the body ran in, nearly falling over himself.

"WHERE DE FUCK IS ME BROT'ER!" the blonde yelled at the top of his lungs.

The door banged open again and again someone ran, in nearly falling over themselves. It was another man with brown hair and blue eyes, face red with anger.

"Why de fuck am I dead!" yelled the brown haired, blue eyed man.


	3. Dead Man Tells His Tale

**Sorry this took so long. Everything kind of slipped away for a bit and I'm starting to get it back piece by piece. Hope you like it! Reviews are welcomed and loved dearly!**

* * *

Poppy looked at the two men, landing her eyes on the brown haired one.

"Woh! It's the dead man," her voice to epitome of sarcasm.

Three sets of eyes shot her way and she habitually took a step back with an almost inaudible squeak. Her heart raced in her chest as she looked down at her shoes, observing that they needed to be polished. A thick silence enveloped the room and folded her tightly with in it. The noiseless atmosphere carried on for a moment longer. She regretted having those words slip from her mouth. She normally wasn't the spit-fire type, but today had been one of the most stress full of her working career and her having a mouth was just her weird way of handling it. It normally doesn't end well.

The brief sound of a few steps echoed throughout the tiled room, with the solid sound of air leaving a pair of lungs followed by an uncomfortable sounding_ Ooph!_ Poppy looked up and saw that the lighter haired man had ran up and embraced the darker haired man rather tightly, not much caring who was in the room and what they saw. The darker haired man was looking over the blondes shoulder seeming to be getting little to no oxygen, his face becoming even redder with strain instead of anger. The man's eyes were roaming around the room quickly, asking silently for anyone to help him get this strong, suffocating grip off him. The man's pretty dark blue eyes landed and held Poppy's green gaze for half a second, before she dropped it and he got a chance to see her flushed face. Finally the blonde man let go, holding the dark haired man by the shoulders.

"Jaysus fuckin' Chirst! I thot ye was dead!" The light haired man turned sharply on his heels to face Smecker, "Ye fuckin' arse!"

Smecker looked at the men with a small scowl on his face, but said nothing. Letting the men yell and get everything out before he started explaining, because obviously they and even Poppy had missed something.

"Wha' de fuck was wit those messages, Smecker! Ye better have a good fuckin' reason! Ye scared Connor shitless and I'm supposedly dead?! I'm breathin' jus' fine!" The darker haired man yelled just as loudly as the man he called Connor.

"Actually," Poppy popped in, seeming meek for a moment, " there have been cases where people have come in with a text-book heart rate that classified them as dead, but they were fully cognizant and functional,"

The three sets of eyes looked at her again and she shut up, looking back at her shoes. They really needed polishing. The awkward silence filled the room again and she looked up when she felt the burning eyes leave her. The two men where looking at Smecker again, waiting impatiently for the FBI agent to answer.

"Listen boys something is happening and I really don't know how to explain it," Smecker started, rubbing the palm of his hands into his irritated eyes.

Smecker started to stumble and couldn't seem to make any coherent thought that they would be able to understand. Poppy made a small coughing noise and raised her hand like she was in school again.

"Which one of you is Murphy McManus?" Poppy asked, her voice coming back to her.

The darker haired man took a tentative step forward.

"Tha' be me," Murphy proclaimed, seeming unsure how this was going to help anything.

Poppy motioned with her finger for him to come to her. This she could do and she could do it well. Poppy was standing by the sheet covered body of William Jacob Thornton and as Murphy came to stand next to her, she still couldn't bring herself to look into his face. Poppy tapped the steel slab a few times for Murphy to avert his eyes to the table.

"As of about 3 minutes ago, you were technically dead Murphy, because the PD didn't correctly identify the body, until he reached me. Mr. Thornton here," Poppy tapped the table again, "was you, until I found otherwise," Poppy explained as best she could, finally gaining the courage to look up to see Murphy's expression.

Murphy looked confused, but not the type of confusion that she would normally associated with being falsely accused of being dead. The confusion was not even really for him, but for the body that was laying before him. Murphy went to lift the sheet from the body, but stopped short as he realized where he was. Poppy turned to the side for a moment and slipped on a pair of latex gloves with a quick snap. Lifting the sheet, it revealed a man about Murphy's size and the similarities stopped there. Mr. Thornton's lips were too thin and Murphy's eyes were shaped more like almonds than the squared off shape that William had. Murphy was the stereotypical Irish-pale, while the body was a good 3 or 4 shades darker and the man looked more like a well groomed, fully grown, testosterone filled male, while Murphy still had the baby-face and skinny, gangly form of a teenage boy, even if the two where about the same age. Poppy folded the sheet down William Thornton's waist and settled his limbs just so.

"On paper you both look the same," Poppy voiced what everyone was questioning.

Murphy nodded his head sadly as he understood. He looked up into the room and saw two more white-sheeted bodies. He scowled and walked quickly to one of them.

"An' who are dees guys?" Murphy asked, turning to ask Poppy over his shoulder.

"They're still John Doe's," Poppy started as she pulled off the gloves, threw them in a conveniently placed garbage can and pulled two more out.

There was a pause as she stood still for a moment. Connor had come up the William and was looking closely at the body, while Murphy seemed to look through the sheet onto the bodies with a type of awe in his looks. Poppy's gut was telling her something, but she wasn't sure of what it was and as she neared either one of the men it became stronger and unable to be ignored. As the silence kept pushing down, she spoke to both of them

"Something keeps telling me I'm going to have to take a leap of faith and see if you guys can identify the other two. I really don't want to have to keep referring to them as a bunch of numbers."

The last part was more to herself, but Connor, Murphy and Smecker heard anyway and the boys nodded their heads. Poppy walked up and side stepped Murphy, brushing lightly up against his back as she squeezed herself between him and the slab behind her. A light flush burned her cheeks. Poppy waited for Connor to stand by Murphy and Smecker at the foot before she lifted the cover.

Poppy spoke quietly to herself in a mock imitation of a tv show announcer.

"And tell them what they've won behind sheet number two, Poppy!"

It was a really bad joke.


End file.
